


Nasty Rumour

by craple



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arya and Aegon being sex-driven teenagers that need to get a room for themselves, Cousin Incest, Drunkenness, Exhaustion, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Implied Incest, Implied Relationships, Jon being a wise brother that resolves possible cause of another Rhaegar/Lyanna tragedy, Revelations, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:38:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did you really sleep with the Dragon Prince?” he blurts the words out in one breath that she barely manages to catch it. If she’s surprised, then Arya hides her emotion far too <i>extremely</i> well. Aegon/Arya future-fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nasty Rumour

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the universe where Dany and Aegon rules over Westeros, Jon is Rhaegar's bastard; Aegon's half brother and Dany's nephew, and Arya is at King's Landing with the Targaryens (not Jon) after hitching a ride with the dragons. Aegon is promised to Arianne, but he's been having sex with Arya behind Dany's back. Jon is just tired and really needs another drink. Or not. Kudos, mates!

Jon is having a long day.

It is nearly time for lunch when he finally catches up with his sister—wrong, his _cousin_ , to be precise; Jon has to remind himself a few times before he starts calling her _‘little sister’_ again like he used to—on the backyard. As usual, she’s having a _healthy_ spar against Aegon, the Dragon Prince, _and_ his half brother. Her dark brown hair is no longer tied in pony tails, spilling down her shoulders, flying freely all around her face like burning flames as she jumps back a few steps with sword in hand. Aegon is breathing rather fiercely too, probably from the useless attempt of catching her or blocking her merciless attacks (the growing bruise on the exposed skin on the crook of his neck is evidence enough), or both. They look so happy though. And although it is not exactly the first time Jon has seen his sweet little sister this happy before, Jon does not like to separate them and ruin their happiness.

But Jon is tired, tired of all the political talks, tired of Daenerys’ futile attempt to make him break his vow by leaving the Night’s Watch once again, tired of having two weeks of restless nights due to a certain rumour that keeps following his little cousin’s footsteps. He has to confirm the situation himself, using both of his own eyes that the rumour is not true, before going back to the Wall and watch over his black brothers once more. He has to. So he stops on his track and calls out to her just when Aegon makes his move by kicking her feet and straddles her on the ground once she falls, groaning.

“That is _not_ fair,” Jon reads the words that come through her lips, hissed through clench teeth at the silver-haired prince, who grins at her in return, sings in a beautiful mocking tone; “Don’t be a sore loser, _cousin dear_. Losing to me once in a while is not that bad don’t you think?” as if to make his point, Aegon leans down until he’s a breath apart from her face and shifts his hips down against hers. Jon sees flush creeps up her neck, with a strangled moan released through her parted lips. This does not look good.

“ _Arya!_ ” he calls out once more, and the two tilt their heads at his direction, lazily, questioningly, that he suddenly has the urge to throw hit them with Longclaw. Instead, he composes himself while trying to stop the twitches of his fingers around the hilt of his valyrian-steel sword. They are still staring at him expectantly, like there is _nothing_ wrong with their, uhh, _position_ on the ground, or the fact that the Dragon Prince has _just_ pushes his growing hard-on against the apex between _their_ cousin’s thighs. Jon clears his throat, continues, “I need to speak with you in private. Now.”

There’s a groan and a sigh from her chapped bloody lips before she looks back at Aegon’s face, murmurs something he cannot _hear_ or _read_ that causes his half-brother to flush from neck to face, staining the pale-stark porcelain skin in deep shades of red. He throws a dirty _look_ at Jon’s way, stands up, and stomps away from the backyard. He’s still in sight though. Jon’s fingers are still twitching, his head throbbing. The urge to throw Longclaw is growing stronger, if it’s even possible.

Crossing over the marble-fence swiftly, the raven haired approaches his cousin, who’s still lying on the ground with a stoic, unreadable mask of indifference on her face. The bright smile full of happiness is gone, making him feel intolerably guilty for what he has done (whatever it was), but he does not back down. He has to clear things up before he leaves, to make sure that everything is alright and that the rumour isn’t true, because this—this is _their_ families’ life at stake here, not just him and Arya. If trouble arises once more, the possibility of them being slaughtered, _again_ , he adds bitterly, is not close to zero.

 _Although this time, it won’t be the Baratheons or the Lannisters,_ Jon thinks. _It will be the Martells and the entire houses from the East, gods be good_.

He stops when he’s half a meter away from his cousin, observing the dark tangled locks of her hair swaying in accordance to the wind and the green grass underneath, the way her eyes narrow ever so slightly and the downward quirk over her lips at his towering shadow. Lord Stark has said once, absentmindedly, that Arya looks so alike to Lyanna that he couldn’t even get angry at her when she started beating Bran at sword-fight. Jon wonders if this is how his mother—Lyanna—really looks like. He wonders if she was really just as wild and beautiful as Arya is at the age of seven and ten.

“What?” Arya asks tonelessly, with a hint of amusement lingers in her voice. Jon smiles down at her and offers his hand.

“Let’s talk inside.”

She frowns, laughs, then takes his hand and lets herself be pulled off the ground.

-x-x-x-

Jon is having a long day, and he has a feeling that it will get longer than before.

Arya sits down on his bed, exploring through stacks of papers that need his immediate attentions on the foot of his bed, dirt falling off the tip of her boots on to the white-silk sheet. He watches her for a moment, slightly annoyed, yet there’s affection pooling at the base of his stomach, collides around his cold heart. Jon takes a bottle of wine he hides in his dresser, pulls out two crystal-clear glasses underneath his desk, pours the wine until both glasses are full with the red liquid barely touching the rims. He puts them down on the night stand beside his bed and sits down beside her. Not before he pushes her feet off his bed, of course.

The wine helps him clear his head; gets the dizziness out and the twitching of fingers into a stop. The tense muscles beneath his skin relax slightly at the warmth spreading throughout his body, so he puts the rim of the glass close to his lips even after he’s no longer drinking, sighs, then puts it back beside the still-full glass. Arya watches him in amusement, lips curve up into a smirk, and scoffs.

“You really had it rough today aren’t you,” she says, more of a statement than a question. Jon heaves another sigh before bringing the glass back to his lips.

“The day hasn’t ended yet, little sister.” She barks a laughter that is so un-lady-like and snatches her own glass with speed and grace that he doesn’t know she possesses. This time, it’s his turn to watch in awe as she pours the content of her glass into her mouth; nearly emptying the entire glass in a single gulp. A drop of wine falls to the corner of her lips, down to her chin, and a roar of laughter tears itself out of his throat when she almost chokes the wine out. Jon starts tapping his gloved-covered hand on her back, takes a napkin he always keeps beside the candle on his night stand, hands it to her all the while laughing.

“Haha... hahaha, easy there, little sister, easy,” Jon manages to say between laughter. Arya shoots an intense glare at his way that can make even him shudder, but the wine that’s spilling from her mouth and her nose makes it so hard not to laugh even more. At this, Arya swallows the wine down her throat before starts hitting him fiercely with bones-breaking punches. “You _ass_!” she growls in anger, her cheeks burn from embarrassment or the wine he’s not sure. Her face looks funny though, so Jon does not stop laughing until he feels one of his ribs cracks under her fist.

“Okay, okay, stop! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh at you,” he says, his voice raises a pitch too high, too loud, grabbing both of her fists and looks at her pleadingly. “Forgive me?” he begs, knowing that the look he’s giving her is honest enough that she loosens her fists and scoffs a _‘fine’_. Arya crosses her arms around her chest, looking straight ahead.

They sit in a comfortable silence that stretches for gods know how long. Jon is looking at the wall in front of him, just like she does, sipping his glass of wine once or twice while rubbing his thumb on the back of her hand absentmindedly. She leans on his shoulder, dark brown locks of messy tangled hair falls across his chest, the smell of pine and grass and woods fill his nostrils. It feels nice, really. Jon feels like they’re back in Winterfell, with him and Robb sparring on the ground, Rickon and Bran and Arya playing around them, running through the castle while their Lord Father was watching from above. _Wrong_ , his chest tightens. _He is not your father, you fool. Never was never is._

Jon pours what’s left of his wine into his mouth before turning toward his sis—cousin. He considers pouring himself another glass, thinking that he _might_ not be able to continue this... _conversation_ they’re going to have if he’s sober. His head starts aching even at the thought, despite the warm effect that has cleared his mind earlier. He’s tempted, like _really_ tempted to stand up and snatch the bottle from his desk, but he finally clears his throat and decides to sort things out with or without the headache.

“I’ve been hearing of certain rumours, back on the wall,” he starts softly, a little uncertain, his heart beats a bit faster when she looks at him straight in the eye. “ _Nasty_ rumours, if I may add.” There’s an uncomfortable feeling gnawing at him, knots in his stomach, his breakfast of hard cold bread, rotten cheese and fresh apples jump into his throat. Jon bites at his lower lip, then the insides of his cheeks, suddenly nervous. Arya raises one perfect brow, says nothing, waits.

When the silence stretches longer for what feels like an hour, though this time _very_ uncomfortable and awkward, the brunette starts losing her patience. She almost snaps and lashes out, Jon knows, so he gathers all the courage he has and—

“Did you really sleep with the Dragon Prince?” he blurts the words out in one breath that she barely manages to catch it. If she’s surprised, then Arya hides her emotion far too _extremely_ well. There is no sparks of surprise in her eyes, no movement of the muscles around her jaw and lips, no sharp intake of breath or sudden loss of oxygen; nothing. She just looks at him the way she always is after her return from Braavos with his half-brother and aunt, looks at him the way she looks at everyone. Jon lets out a breath he does not remember holding until a few seconds ago and tilts his head questioningly. “Well?”

For a moment, one fleeting moment, Jon thinks that she did not hear the question, or did not _understand_ what he just said because, well, he _did_ say it in one breath. Maybe she mistakes his words in some complicated Valyrian language or Braavosi or perhaps the old volantis. He had heard her talking with both Aegon— _Prince_ Aegon and _Queen_ Daenerys, he reminds himself—in five different languages fluently during their free time, although it has become less and less frequent with her being a queen, Aegon being her heir to be the next king, and Arya being _far too difficult_ to deal with. The Dragon Prince has not been really helpful either since, instead of helping him and the queen to get a suitable match for the wild wolf, he has been _supporting her_ by humiliating each and every single high lord that came to ask for her hand in front of the entire court to see.

Also, the last time they saw his other cousin, Sansa Stark, who is now helping Rickon to be the ideal lord Winterfell needs with Bran taking the path of being a Maester, she was certainly _not_ happy at how Arya japed about the beard of the latest lord (a lord from House Crakehall who was, unfortunately, _extremely loyal_ to House Lannister).

Jon still remembers the blush that crept up the poor golden cub’s cheeks at her joke, and how things got worse when Aegon added, without any shame or mercy in his voice, that he looked like an old staggering goat instead of lion like that. The tears that dwelled on the corner of his eyes were heart-breaking, he has to admit. He also remembers the way his half-brother’s electric purple eyes glinted when he mouthed something, _not in the old tongue_ , obviously, at Arya which made her half-laughing half-choking below Daenerys’ throne. She called it a day and had a talk with both of them.

Ah. Maybe _that_ is where the rumour came from. He won’t be surprised if it is.

“—ferent, _Jon_. Are you listening?” a cold rough hand slaps his right cheek, making it stings and bringing him back to reality all at once. The sound is still echoing through the entire room when he stutters a what, in which Arya replies by rolling her eyes and repeats what she was saying before.

“Like I said, _Jon_ , I did _not_ sleep with Aegon,” she repeats, obviously annoyed, then gets _worse_ than annoyed when he heaves out a long, deep, _heavy_ sigh of relief at her answer. Jon feels like a heavy stone with burning chains have been lifted off his chest; he simply cannot help it. Aegon has been promised to another, Arianne Martell from Dorne. Their wedding will happen soon, he helps to look out for it despite the entire headache from the Wall, with the White Walkers probably on their gates already, _literally_ speaking. No matter how wild Arya can be, she _knows_ that what they are doing can risk the entire Kingdom.

“I fucked him.” Arya says, smiles sweetly up at him, drinks the rest of her wine with grace. Jon stares at the woman, who used to be his cute little sister, maybe still is when it’s just the two of them, his expression unreadable. The corner of his lips is twitching up into a half-stupid smile, but it seems that all the muscles around his face, with the exception of his lips, freeze almost instantly at hearing her answer. Arya chuckles in amusement.

Standing up on her feet, the brunette walks over to the desk where Jon has left the bottle. She pours the wine into her glass and starts laughing when the bottle drains up. “Are you so naive as to think that nothing happened between the two of us while we were travelling to Westeros, Jon?” this time, the sound of her voice makes the twitching stop and Jon to look down on the floor. The dragon-patterned tiles look _very_ interesting suddenly. “We didn’t even _know_ that we’re related, and _I_ didn’t know that he’s a Targaryen. His hair was blue that time, you see. He said he was a Tyroshi who seek comfort from the sound of steel against steel, _with my brother_. Ha! Jaqen laughed so hard all the people in the alehouse turned to look at him.” A smile forms on her face, eyes downcast as she starts remembering. Jon looks at her voicelessly and stares. “He’s _gorgeous_ , you see, Jaqen. He has this voice that can make you feel instantly comfortable despite all the circumstances. Like a snake, just as equally dangerous too, perhaps more.” _So do you, little sister,_ Jon thinks sadly. _So do you_.

“With him, I cannot leave the Free Cities though. His place is there, he has to be everywhere, because that’s what we do. Me and him. So when this strange, _beautiful_ blue-haired Tyroshi came to us, with the offer to spar against Jaqen, how could I _not_ take it?” her voice lowers at the end of the question. She sips her wine quietly while Jon watches in silence; her words and voice go straight to his brain, processing each and every word that’s pouring out of her mouth. This is probably the only moment where she would tell her stories to him, and Jon does not want to pass out on that. “After a little bit of insults here and there, he brought me to his ship and we fought you know. He lost, twice, so when he came again for more, I told him that if he loses again, he _had_ to bring me back to Westeros with him. He thought I’m in love with him.” Arya pauses, her face changes slightly into that unreadable expression she often uses when she thinks no one sees her. Jon fights the urge to ask _‘Well are you?’_ , because he does not really want to ruin the moment here.

Instead of continuing though, Arya gives a long tired sigh that makes her look older than her age. She smiles that sad little smile Lord Eddard used to give him when he asked about his mother back when he was young, sneaking around the godswood to accompany him during one of his prayers. His chest tightens at the image. “It was a long ride, you see. That dwarf wasn’t really helping the mood to improve as well. We fought every day, Griff and I. There’s this... _tension_ between us; something that we couldn’t explain with words,” she laughs at her own cheesiness, and Jon has to smile as well. “So one night... well, the tension _broke_ and we were—“Arya stops, looks at him and gives him this amused, _sexy_ little smile that reminded him so much of Ygritte. He knows what happened even if she doesn’t continue.

Once she stops talking, both Starks stare deep into each other’s eyes, not even batting an eye lid for a second. Jon stares because he, well, he’s not sure what to say at times like these. Times where you find out your little sister fucked—or probably _has been fucking_ —your half-brother. So okay, she might not be his little sister anymore, and although relationship between cousins doesn’t count as incest, Aegon is _promised_ to someone. None of this feels right anymore.

Arya stares expectantly because she’s waiting for Jon to process the whole thing and uhh, just waiting. With other people, she knows what they would say; probably some stupid lines to excuse themselves from the awkwardness, really. But Jon’s no coward, and she wants to hear what _he_ will say. She expects an hour of lecture; her mother _would_ give her an hour of lecture, that much she’s sure. Her father would just say, _‘Oh, Arya’_ and tries to figure things out together. She wonders what Jon will say.

“Okay. So basically, ah...” Jon starts; rubbing the back of his head with one gloved hand and throws his arm in exasperation. “We’re screwed.” He finishes, walks up to her, snatches the bottle from the table and gulps them all down in one shot. Arya blinks. Not exactly what she has in mind. He has completely ruined her expectation.

“And why is that Jon,” she tilts the bottle into her mouth, sarcasm dripping in her voice, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Jon shakes his head, removing some of the black hair that falls onto his face and shrugs like what he’s going to say next is the most obvious thing in the world.

“You should take the black.”

Silence.

“Not exactly what I was expecting, but that’s a brilliant joke Jon.”

“It’s funny because I’m actually being _very_ serious here.”

Another silence stretches in the room so long and intense they can barely breathe... without drawing the swords strapped on their hips, of course. Jon’s fingers are twitching around the hilt of Longclaw, once again, and he can see the rage of fire in Arya’s piercing silver eyes, stabbing right through him. The wind whistling outside his room changes its pace into what you might call a storm without rain. Ghost is off hunting not so far from the palace, but he suddenly wishes the presence of his direwolf nearby, just to be on the safe side. Jon Connington and Ser Barristan Selmy both have warned him about the speed of a braavosi sellsword, a reminder as of not to do something that might piss his little sister off.

Besides, what is wrong with taking the black? They _are_ accepting women who can actually fight with swords and bows now, _especially_ since they’re currently short on men-power back on the Wall. He has always known her sister’s yearning toward swords and fighting; and they could _really_ use a hand from Arya, with her skills and all.

“We accept women now, if that will make you feel better. Only the ones who can fight, of course.” Jon tells her and feels a bit relaxed when she shifts slightly into a more comfortable stance that might not lead to a fight between them. When she blinks, Jon almost slumps down on the floor in relief and blinks himself, since his eyes are already dry and hurting from their staring contest.

Sighing, he pulls Arya’s lithe form against his fur-cloak covered body, feeling her stiffen under his touch before relaxing ever so slightly. He buries his face in her hair and whispers something he cannot believe he will ever say to her, gods be damned. “You know our vows, right? That we will take no wives and no children. The vows haven’t changed, have no fear. You don’t want to be married off to some lord that you will probably mock for the rest of his life, and we don’t want another tragedy that can destroy our Houses, Stark and Targaryen.” She understands the meaning behind his words, he knows. _Like my mother and father_ , Jon thinks. “You’ll be free to... to _see_ Aegon whenever you like, and him to see you too, without raising suspicion,” _in King’s Landing_ , he wants to add, but she gets the picture, he’s sure.

Slender hands wrap themselves around his waist. He feels Arya nuzzling against the fur of his cloak, her hair flying to his face, but he doesn’t mind. Jon smells the wildness in her hair, how it reminds him of Ygritte and Ghost and woods all at once. A warm feeling of comfort spreads into his chest, a reminder that they’re both still alive, a reminder of how much he misses her, although a question on the dark corner of his mind is still attacking him mercilessly, forcing its way out of his already sore throat. Jon clears his throat and pulls her away from him. He stares into her eyes with determination, lips purse into a thin line before asking; “Please tell me you’re not pregnant, no?”

This time, Arya laughs in delight and amusement.

“Of course I’m not! Are you that mad to think I would fuck someone without preparation firsthand?” if she had not escaped to Braavos during the slaughter of the Lannister, killed a stable boy and perhaps some other people whose name she carved deep into her soul, Jon would say _no_ , because she’s Arya Stark, a supposedly maid of seven and ten, his fierce little sister and the most precious person in his entire life.  But that girl is dead, she told him as much the first time they met after a long while. Jon smiles sadly, uncertainly, ruffling her hair.

“I don’t know. It’s been too long, Arya.” Honesty drips from the tip of his tongue, in each word he says. There’s also longing and regret in his voice as he murmurs the word into her hair, which makes her nods in understanding.

“You don’t have to worry about anything, Jon.” She says softly in assurance, nuzzling her nose against the crook of his neck. “Besides, even if I’m pregnant, I’d just say it’s Gendry’s. He or she will look like me later, anyway.” Arya tells him with a wink, one that is playful and _wicked_ if he doesn’t know better. He scoffs with a grin, amused at what she means, and is going to say something silly when another voice, deep and soft, with hints of amusement and probably offended startles them both.

“And what, dear cousin, do you mean by _that_?”

They let go of each other to look at the intruder, who’s leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom with a half-smirk on his face. Even Jon has to admit that he _does_ look a little bit gorgeous, sexy like that. Like all the Targaryens, Aegon has a heavenly voice that can put all the best singers in the world to shame. It’s a pleasant sound, soft yet hoarse, beautiful and deep, not entirely high-pitch yet sexy and elegant all at once. Ygritte told him once that he too, had a nice voice that could, quoted and unquoted, _set her body aflame_ , but he doubts his voice sounds as good as Aegon’s.

Arya grins at him, and it’s all teeth and primal, suggestively sensual mixed with amusement that makes Jon’s stomach knots, _not_ in a good way. She walks toward him, slow and intimidating, hips swaying slow like a cat, eyes burn dangerously, promising either harm or a kiss or perhaps even both; with her, Jon can never be sure anymore. Aegon watches her, far too intense to look _normal_ , so far away from being _innocent_. The look in his eyes is somewhat equally intense as hers, though there is an obvious affection that cannot be said as _brotherly_ lingers in those deep pools of bright burning violet.

Jon decides that he really is on for a long, tiring day at what she says next.

“Surely you do, _cousin dearest_. You are just too _embarrassed_ to process the meaning behind my words,” her lips curve even wider, more wicked and dangerous than Jon can ever imagine someone can be. Aegon’s eyes darken slightly, clouded and hooded with lust—something that Jon is far too familiar with over the years—looking back and forth between her eyes and her lips. There is amusement at the way the corner of his lips tugs up, but the offended look on his face is not at all feigned or fake. “Are you not? You are, after all, your father’s son in truth.”

As if to prove her point, and to make matters worse, Arya cocks her head at him, signalling his long-forgotten presence back to the Prince’s mind. He should be offended too at this point, he knows. Jon is far too tired, too worn-out for that though. So he rests his forehead on his palm, elbow pressed lazily against the surface of the desk, making his head bobs up and down as he struggles for another bottle of wine somewhere beneath his desk; desperate to get rid of his sober-state, maybe drinking himself to death in the process.

The Dragon Prince looks over at him for a brief-half second, just ever so slightly that he might actually not see him, before snatching the brunette’s wrists and slams them roughly on the wall outside his chamber. _Be kind and leave my room, please_ , Jon wants to say, but his fingers wrap around the bottle’s cap and the thought leaves him in an instant. He pretends not to see the knee pressing urgently between Arya’s parted thighs. Also the bulge in his half-brother’s breeches, or the strangled moan his little sister— _cousin_ —makes when she bucks her hips to meet his, _or_ the pale calloused hand sliding beneath the light-brown leather of Arya’s shirt and the amount of flushed skin it shows. He also pretends not to hear ( _wishing_ really, but oh fuck whatever and _oh_ , his brain stops working properly now and maybe just maybe he’s not sober enough to hear things wrongly) the husky sound of Aegon’s voice as he whispers threats and promises into her ear, small barely-heard as it is from the distance.

“Always getting under my _skin_ ,” a long, sensual moan from Arya, “Never leaving my _mind_ even after everything you’ve _done_ ,” he pauses, a deep grunt echoes through the walls, right into his room (and no, _oh fuck no he is so not listening_ , there’s a butterfly passing by his window and _oh look_ ). “Feeling this _turn-on_ even at your insults and _now_ —“

Jon hears nothing, sees nothing. He does not hear the sharp high-pitch mewl sound that Arya makes when his right eye _accidentally_ sweeps across his bedroom to see the hand shoved into her breeches, and he certainly does not see the close proximity between their lips, the way their eyelids flutter as they stare into each other through hooded eyes, not even the tongue that presses down between his cousin’s chapped lips.

Feeling more and more uncomfortable despite the warmth clouding up in his head by the second, Jon clears his throat in futile attempt to get their attention.

They ignore him completely.

“It is not my fault that, _ngghh,_ you Targar _yeeehns..._ have a thing for, _oh_ -I...” Arya slurs, gasping. She babbles a bunch of incoherent words, not taking her eyes off his, and Jon feels like he’s going to vomit.

He silently thanks the gods that his room is located far east where servants are not likely to visit except for emergency, which means they are not to be disturbed soon, which will cause _him_ a lot of _pain_ , not just in the ass, but _everywhere_. He puts three fingers on each side of his forehead, massaging them with enough force to leave marks, blunt nails digging into his skin. There are a few things that come to his mind at the moment. Things like throwing the bottle at his half-brother, who is literally sticking his fingers up into trouble, or throwing the bottle at his used-to-be-sister-but-now-his-cousin, who has given him enough headaches for being difficult alone.

“You are implying that my seeds are not strong enough to leave an heir that will look like me,” Aegon says with tone of forced indifference that fools no one. His voice drops low a timbre, trembling as he speaks. His tongue flicks out to taste sweat off the skin of his lips, taste the drop of blood smearing across Arya’s lips. Jon’s visions are blurry, so he does not see that too, yes he does not.

“Rha _aa_ enys and _Joohn_ , both is _aahh!_ g-good enough pr _ooohhff_ of tha— _aaahh_!”

The bottle idea feels so tempting, suddenly.

“Then maybe we should get you, _ah_ , pregnant to find out?”

He falls, head-first on the table.

Jon is having a long day.

He is, currently and quite literally, forced to listen and steal a peek or two, at the sexual activity between his half-brother and his cousin. He is, also, really frustrated, but not in a sexually-frustrated sort of way because he’s _hearing_ the noises they are making in their fore-play before fucking. He is frustrated because they are going to fuck, _in front of his bedroom_ , when he’s only a few meters away. But what frustrates him the most is the fact that the wine cannot get him drunk enough to pass out, _and_ the fact that he’s too weak to throw the bottle for a clean-shot at their heads.

There will be no end for the rumours between the two of them because, well, they _are not_ rumours. Not anymore at least.

Jon is having a long day—so he does what drunken people usually does: mutters curses under his breath, brings the rim of the bottle back to his lips, drinks one bottle too many to _forget_ , and pretends not to see or hear anything.

At least he will not remember anything when morning comes.

That’s good enough.

Hopefully.


End file.
